Library Cat: The Observations of a Thinking Cat

The Byronic Side

It was now two weeks until Christmas and Library Cat was feeling much better. Students were merrily singing carols, and wearing pleasingly coloured pieces of red tinsel that glittered and were most enjoyable to chase. The number of titbits also increased – turkey suddenly became plentiful as well as salmon and cream… so much cream! By and large, the Humans had given up their martyrish desire to keep their houses unnecessarily cold, and buildings were slowly becoming warmer, despite some of the more wealthy households remaining stubbornly and inexplicably Baltic.

The loneliness he had felt when he’d seen the Black Dog had instilled a new craving in him. He wanted a mate. A partner. Another thinking cat with whom he could share his thoughts and nuzzle against on a cold night. Puddle Cat was the one, of course. But then Puddle Cat was frustratingly enigmatic. Library Cat had spent so many hours hoping he’d see Puddle Cat again, but on the odd occasion that he did, her beautiful image would ripple into nothingness every time he attempted to drop a mouse or rat or other token of affection into her pretty mouth. It was futile.

This particular day saw Library Cat sitting on the dreich grass behind the chaplaincy. Many people seeing him might have assumed he was sitting there because the library was closed, or because the chaplaincy was being vacuumed.

They would’ve been wrong.

You see, Library Cat was in fact sitting out in the grey drizzle because it was time to up his game. It was 17th December (or, as we all know, the 192nd anniversary since the publication of Don Juan’s ‘Canto XII’), and Library Cat was attempting to channel Byron in the hope of attracting a mate. He was sure the other thinking cats in the area would get the reference. If not, they weren’t worth it.

Apparently, mused Library Cat, according to the Romantic poets, this setting of bone-numbing dampness and colour-sucking drizzle imbues me with an enigmatic quality. I am a sort of Heathcliff of cats. Thus, according to the Romantic Human masters, I will become immediately irresistible. It’s a double-edged sword. I’ll either receive cat love, or the Humans will think me irresistibly Romantic and lavish me with tickles.

And so Library Cat, hunched in the cold and sporting the frown of a true method actor, waited. He waited, and waited, and waited, ’neath the symbolically spindly tree. He waited so long he forgot it was 5.55 am when he first arrived. He moved closer to the symbolically spindly tree in an effort to seem more enigmatic. He shivered. Several Humans passed by and not one cat. The Humans didn’t even notice him. He shivered some more.

Am I waiting for affection, or waiting for Godot? he thought wryly to himself, temporally lifting his mood with the spark of his own Beckett-inspired wit.

Evening started to settle in, and things became silent. In the distance, he heard trains arriving at Haymarket, clicking over the tight, mirrored rails. Still no cats arrived. The odd Human raced past on a bike like a firing torpedo. Library Cat started to wonder whether there might be something else that was putting potential cats off.

Perhaps I smell strange?

Library Cat noticed how things this time of year began to smell very spicy and sugary and wondered whether she-cats were expecting him to smell the same. It seemed peculiar that they would, but then again his current strategy wasn’t offering much success either. He’d tried scent marking – around the tree, and in the house, and in the library, and on his turquoise chair – but the sorry fact was that the scent mark of a thinking cat simply doesn’t possess the same potency as that of an alley cat, and given thinking cats come with their own set of attractive credentials, he felt that he might as well fight the war on his terms and with his assets. “Out-think the fug”, as the other Towsers would put it.

Well something has to be done, fretted Library Cat, rising slowly and shaking the dew off his fur. Books alone evidently don’t cut it in the language of love. Byron was clearly a deluded cretin with some other secret trick up his sleeve that he chose not to reveal.

Poetry is a load of rubbish!

Recommended Reading

‘A Study of Reading Habits’ by Philip Larkin.

Food consumed

A bead of dew.

Mood

Alluring, voluptuous.

Discovery about Humans

They couldn’t see a decent feline re-enactment of a Beckett classic even if it were to come up and scratch them in the face.